Death Comes with a Crawl
by Vallory Russups
Summary: Tom Riddle, raised by Merope Gaunt in Godric's Hollow, hates his distant relative Hadrian Peverell who hides secrets and weaves convoluted plots with some of their fellow Slytherins. The House is divided between two leaders, and the threat of a Dark Lord looms as threateningly as ever. Yet, Tom cannot abandon his own agenda. Neither can Harry. Eventual TR/HP. DarkHarry


Disclaimer: Mine are the plot and characters or items that you don't recognise. Anything else is J. K. Rowling's.

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Summary: Tom Riddle, raised by Merope Gaunt, hates his distant relative Hadrian Peverell who hides secrets and weaves convoluted plots with their fellow Slytherins. The House is divided, and the threat of a Dark Lord looms as threateningly as ever. Yet, Tom cannot abandon his agenda. Neither can Harry.

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Paring: TRHP (bottom but not submissive Harry). There will likely be others, too.

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Hello, and thanks for clicking! Admittedly, I didn't expect to start another story, but it won't leave me alone for weeks, so I guess I have to take it off my chest. I've written some future bits of chapters already, so I know where this is going, but the amount of time I put into it will correspond with the number of reviews I get.

That said, enjoy!

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**_Chapter 1. Open to the Night_**

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Tom Riddle didn't remember a time he had not loathed Hadrian Peverell.

By now, it had become a common practice, one more whim of the routine Tom followed day by day, to grimace upon Peverell's arrival and grind out a greeting through clenched teeth. He didn't often succeed. Sometimes, an irritated grit of teeth would come out, and nothing further – and Tom's blue eyes would meet the serene verdant.

Had he mentioned he hated colour green?

"You are frowning," a calm voice that resembled the rustle of dry leaves on the pavement reprimanded gently. A second later Tom's frown smoothed out under the caress of long fingers, wrinkled from the washing the woman must have down minutes before. In fact, if he strained his sense of smell, Tom could catch whiffs of camomile soap.

"Why are we going there again?" Tom scowled and tore the hands away from his face, only for the scowl to deepen when he heard a wispy laughter from behind. "They don't like us. They don't want us there. _I_ hate it there; both that arrogant woman and her brain-dead son."

Merope sighed and clumped past Tom to drop into the armchair in front of Tom's. There were only two armchairs in the living-room. Like everything else in the house, those items of furniture were worn and old: the velvety material had long acquired its threadbare splotches, which were a stark almost-creamy contrast to the supposed dark brown the armchairs had once been. They were adequately comfy, Tom supposed, embarrassed to admit he found such a proof of despicable poverty comfortable, and many evenings of his infanthood had been spent in a placid laze while Merope held him on her knees and read aloud the dog-eared tome of Beedle the Bard.

Tom despised his living conditions. He had never brought any acquaintance in – not that he wanted to, but still. The children in Godric's Hollow had tried to mock him once, long ago, but Tom's superiority had won in the end: a few displays of "accidental" magic had done the trick, and their arrogance based on material well-being was in shambles.

Merope had scolded him for being unkind. Tom had been, and still was, unrepentant. Actually, he had even paid a visit later to the hiding-spot those children played in. Just to make the lesson sink. Nothing more, nothing less.

Tom thought he would make his ancestor proud.

Merope always only shook her head and allowed that odd sad smile drift across her lips when he confessed his excited belief to her.

Then again, Merope was a kind soul. The sort that Tom could neither become nor understand, and frankly had no desire to do so: muggles didn't have magic while he did. Wasn't it good enough a proof? Hadn't fate itself decided to grant him that gift, leaving muggles bereft?

"You cannot go on like this, Tom. I understand that enjoying human company is a foreign concept to you, but one day you must rise in the world. However genius you are, you cannot avoid socialisation to do that."

"I don't hate all people," Tom stubbornly retorted. It was a lie. They both knew it. "Only the ones who live here. You're an exception, of course. See? I want many of them dead and gone, true, but haven't I proved that I l-" He stumbled upon the word and corrected himself in a heartbeat. "-_like_ you and enjoy your company? You're human. So, your argument is invalid."

A tiny smile quirked Merope's lips.

"You dare laugh at me?" Tom asked sharply, fisting the armrest.

Merope shook her head. The gesture was nervous, quick, like her entire body language. Merope didn't tell much about her childhood, but sometimes Tom caught hints and easily put them together. A shame, really, that his uncle was long dead. Tom would have added him to a special list of people to brutally kill immediately after his mystery father, of whom the only thing he knew from Merope was the likeness they shared. Every time the reminder came up, the conversation between mother and son halted, with Merope flinching in guilt and Tom staring stubbornly at the wall or any other surface, unwilling to acknowledge any resemblance to the man he deemed a certified imbecile.

"Just happy I have such a smart son."

" Flattery will get you nowhere. I'm still unwilling to go there." Seeing Merope's lowered and cross-eyed but unrelenting stare, Tom switched tactics. "Please, mother?"

_Only to her_, he vowed. No other man or woman deserved hearing his pleas but her.

"I have to work, honey," Merope murmured gently. She rose and lurched to Tom, dropping on her knee when she reached him and tracing a tender finger up the smooth skin of his arm. Tom clenched his teeth. "I cannot, in good conscious, leave you cope here alone when I may be gone for hours, 'til the very late evening. Lady Peverell will gladly receive you-"

"Gladly?" Tom spat. He tore his arm away from her. "She'd rather sniff old socks. Besides, I can wait. Night or day, it doesn't change anything. I can and I will wait, seeing how you absolutely have to go to work. There's no need to burden the old stiff."

Tom rejected the idea so vehemently not least because he had no desire to see Hadrian Peverell, who would once again be _charitable_, pushing sweets and biscuits into Tom's hands, thrusting him nifty magical trinkets and gimcracks, sometimes even sharing galleons, all the while looking at Tom with that annoying gentle, if a bit absent-minded, smile that spoke of affection that _didn't exist_.

That was the main crux between Tom and Hadrian. Or, well, on Tom's side in any case.

Hadrian's emotional and perceptive capacities seemed somewhat stunted, from what Tom had seen: reluctantly observing Hadrian he had come to the conclusion that there was an air of mystery surrounding the boy. It was like a veil of faint mist, something intangible and inconsequential, but always present in his everyday interactions. A veil that covered enigmatic knowledge and shielded it from the eyes of eager beholders, and Tom vibrated in his seat to rip it away along with that faraway smile and the same sort of stare, discovering what secrets it hid.

Green eyes were always taunting. Knowing. Seeing. It was as if Hadrian possessed eternal knowledge most other people lacked.

A family secret, perhaps?

Tom's family had its fair share of them, but it didn't prevent his curiosity regarding those of others to resurface.

"Patricia Peverell is family, Tom," Merope replied to him, attracting his attention once more. She tried to be stern but failed, as she always did. "Not only that, but she's my saviour; _your_ saviour. If she hadn't come in my time of need, I'm scared to imagine what end would've awaited me. Probably death. And orphanage for you."

Tom froze in his seat despite having heard the story many times. A life apart from Merope, in ignorance regarding his heritage? He couldn't imagine one.

"When I was about to sell our family treasure-" She fiddled with an opulently done locket, clashing gold and emeralds, that hung imperiously from Tom's neck, looking too heavy for a child. "-she interrupted my deal with that vendor man and demanded to know where it'd come from. I told her the truth. I explained everything. And so, she took me here, gave me a home and a job, and allowed me to raise you. All because we are distant cousins."

Tom sneered and snapped, "That's because she wished to snatch a piece of Slytherin heritage for herself!" The shout echoed in the bare-walled room. He quietened, continuing in disparaging tones, "And she succeeded, didn't she? Got the ring."

Merope shot him a weak smile as she closed her crossed eyes for a second.

"It's just the ring. To be fair, it belongs to her and her family; the ring was stolen by your grandfather from his uncle once-"

"And you granted me the name of the man who had no qualms in stealing from his family?" Tom demanded sharply.

Merope flinched and lowered her head and her gaze. Tom deflated. He curbed his temper easily, after years of practice.

"I will forgive you," Tom allowed imperiously before he narrowed his eyes. "And I agree to go to that house for today."

"And you will be civil to young Hadrian?"

Tom gritted his teeth.

"I will."

"And you will help Lady Peverell if she asks you to? In the garden or-"

More grinding, plus fist-clenching.

"I will."

"And I won't receive any complaints, that you're drowning her owls again, or stealing potions ingredients and odd trinkets, or bullying other children into breaking into her garden and stomping on the flowers there-"

"On best behaviour!" Tom snapped, his temper on the loose.

Merope smiled. It was strained around the edges, but then again, her smiles always were. They gave the impression of a person who had struggled through her lot in life, eventually coming to a standstill and a confusion as to which path to follow or which direction to take. As if life without pain and hardships was a foreign concept the woman was unwilling to explore, thus remaining forever in that middling state of insecurity, confusion, uncertainty.

Tom sneered and turned away. At times he hated her, too.

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Merope went out charring, usually until late into night. She barely had any magic, so she always completed things manually: the washing-up, the clothes (both ironing and cleaning), the dust, the food. People were quite satisfied with her work, and so, considering she charged so minimal a price that even lower and middle class people could afford it, she got a plenty of offers.

From the muggle part, that is.

Godric's Hollow was a mixed village, comprised both of wizarding and muggle families. It was incredibly small. A community that held next to none entertainment, but plentiful relaxation and quiet. For most people it was idyllic-

But not for Tom and Merope.

They were both locked into that precarious station between two worlds separated by an invisible line: Merope was a witch who could hardly do any magic, not even enough to ward her house, while Tom was just a small boy with violent accidental bursts of it. Actually, to have _some_ semblance of a normal life and job, outside the house Merope constantly wore an enchanted chain presented to her by Patricia, which enveloped her into a glamour charm and hid her ugly features and figure.

Wizards hardly noticed.

People of Godric's Hollow were mostly Ministry workers who spent their weekdays away from home, returning only in the evenings, and weekends in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley – two locations Tom heard so much about but had never been in.

"If you're going to steal, at least make sure it's something valuable." Tom sprang away from a figurine in a sea of gimcracks that overflowed a rosewood tallboy. He whirled around to meet amused verdant eyes. "Want me to give you a tip?"

Tom schooled his features into nonchalance and nodded in greeting.

"Peverell."

"Hadrian," the black-haired boy corrected in his usual piping voice. "You often call your mother by your first name, why don't you do the same with me?"

"You are not my mother," Tom replied with a sneer, covertly taking a further step away from the statuette he had been about to snitch. "Thankfully. I cannot imagine someone just as nosy as you can be."

Hadrian shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the wall in a relaxed position. Tom reluctantly appraised his small form: inky black hair that fell in tousled waves to bony shoulders, plump lips often curved into a faraway smile, the all-milk-and-roses complexion, and, most importantly, the eyes. The latter changed the shade according to the light and the mood of the owner, going from grass green to bottle-green to almost black, and then back to the apple hue again, but the brightness never changed. It was an alluring pair of eyes, truly. A shame they had to belong to the most annoying person ever, in Tom's mind.

"I think I have a right to know. It's my family's possessions you're trying to nick, sometimes successfully," Hadrian reasoned placidly.

Tom raised a mocking brow, advancing towards the other boy. Smugness settled in his chest as he noticed that he was inches taller than Hadrian. A boost to his sense of superiority.

"What happened to your naggings about 'helping' Merope and I, with money if necessary, or food?" Tom drawled mockingly. He knew Hadrian would never actually agree to give up anything, he wasn't obligated, after all, and without that the smaller boy had no reason-

"Glad you're finally seeing sense!" Hadrian nodded with a grin of approval. Before Tom could blink or otherwise react, the Peverell heir lunged at him and clasped the fabric of his tattered shirt. Dragging Tom down the corridor and to the vintage ladder, he muttered, "Been telling mother for ages about aiding your family, but she doesn't see why we should, and you always refuse to let me-"

On and on the ramblings went. Hadrian didn't talk much, but once set off, usually by the topic of Tom's situation and the stealing he resorted to, the boy would blabber his ears off.

Tom looked down at the hand that had crawled from the sleeve to clutch his own. The Peverell ring blinked its onyx eye up at him. He scowled. He wrenched his hand away.

"Don't go around grabbing me with your dirty paws," he hissed, careful not to switch to Parseltongue. Although the sibilant hisses soothed him, he doubted Hadrian would appreciated the talent, not after what Merope had told him about the attitude to Dark gifts in the Wizarding World.

Hadrian stopped. His face looked plastered with the ethereal enigmatic half-smile on it that never came off. Tom wanted to shred that expression into pieces; Hadrian Peverell had no business having that mystique about him.

Tom didn't understand, and what he didn't understand he preferred to hate.

"You are being difficult again," Hadrian accused with a sigh.

"And you are saddling me with the role of a charity case again," Tom retorted coolly. With an absent-minded eye he regarded his surroundings. A vast hall saturated with the resplendent glory of the masterpieces of the wizarding art: statues, carpets, tapestries, paintings, random trinkets... They were plentiful and yet never created an image of overabundance, instead falling into a cavalcade of fine taste and beauty.

Someday, Tom vowed, he would have a house like that. A manor, even. And maybe more than just one.

"I don't do it just for anyone," Harry responded sharply. His piercing eyes bore into Tom's. "In fact, if it were any other person, magical or muggle, I wouldn't give a damn. But you? You are family, Tom Riddle, and I shall treat you as such. My mother might not see it much because she doesn't think people of our age are useful-"

"When it concerns you, I must agree," Tom bit out with a nastily contorting his face grimace.

"-but you have potential and- what's the word?" Hadrian's forehead scrunched up in thought before he exclaimed. "Ah, nurture! Nurture this potential to its full power." His full lips stretched into a sly smirk, not unlike a fox's. "And, of course, if I'm so kind as to help you now, you'll return the favour someday."

Tom snorted in derision. Walking off in the opposite direction, where the library filled with delicious tomes on magic situated, he visibly showed no signs of waiting for Hadrian. Still, his walk was less brisk than usual. Because of necessity, of course: Patricia Peverell protected her books like zealous goblins protected gold vaults, and only with Hadrian there Tom could escape potential punishment.

"You're a fool if you believe I'll fall for that."

"You're telling this now, but believe me, when you start Hogwarts you'll come to me yourself."

"If you have such strong connections, why is your manor always empty sans you, Patricia, and house elves?" Tom mocked, and was surprised to catch a glimpse of Hadrian's face in one of the many mirrors they passed on their way. The smaller boy was completely closed off, a frozen wall separated from the rest of the world.

"Sometimes, isolation is the only means of survival." Hadrian recited that with the long-suffering intonation of someone who had heard the words repeated time and time again. It was the closest Tom had come to the secrets surrounding the Peverell family.

Who was Hadrian's father? Why did Patricia always hire the best warders in the world to protect her house? Why was no one ever invited, if the Peverell family was indeed as upstart as they claimed and flaunted? Why did Hadrian spend so much time in the graveyard with his album and brushes and painting quills, never showing his pictures to anyone but always so intent on what he was doing? Why Godric's Hollow? Why save Merope Gaunt for a single, admittedly not the most beautiful or precious, ring? Those questions drove Tom up the wall.

"And Hogwarts might be a tough place for one with a name that is not pureblood. Especially in Slytherin."

Back to present, he slowed down, but refused to stop completely. Hogwarts: A History was a costly book his family could not afford, and Merope had never attended that school. So, every drop of information was efficiently sponged up.

Didn't mean he had to show it.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much," Tom drawled frostily as he threw a look over his shoulder at Hadrian, his hand reaching for the doorknob to the place a muggle would have called his "heaven". "I will never need your assistance."

He could hear laughter in Hadrian's voice when the younger boy spoke.

"Say, do you want to bet on it, Tom?"

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AN: there are only two chapters more before the beginning of Hogwarts. Although there's a myriad of potential occurrences and interactions, I don't want to drag out the pre-Hogwarts time. The second chapter will likely get out fairly soon, but admittedly this story isn't on the forefront of my mind at the moment. But! If I see that it gets a lot of reviews, I might reconsider and work on it some more.

Also, in this chapter I had to introduce Merope, so there's a lot of it, but in the next chapters her role will be gradually diminishing (but don't forget that she _is_ the only person Tom loves right now!).


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